The officer nodded.
“The emergency dispatcher guided Logan through the situation.”
Logan’s voice became quieter.
“Mr. Henson stopped breathing normally. The dispatcher told me to start chest compressions.”
I stared at my son.
“You performed CPR?”
He nodded.
“For almost six minutes,” Benny explained.
My hand flew to my mouth.
I knew exactly how physically exhausting CPR could be.
Even trained medical professionals often rotated during prolonged resuscitation efforts.
Yet my seventeen-year-old son had continued helping an elderly neighbor until emergency responders arrived.
“The dispatcher counted with him,” Benny said. “Logan followed the instructions and didn’t leave Walter’s side.”
I looked at Logan.
He was staring at the floor.
Then he whispered something that made my eyes fill with tears.
“I didn’t want him to be alone, Mom.”
For a moment, the kitchen went completely quiet.
I understood immediately.
Daniel.
The roadside.
The truck.
The thought that his father had spent his final moments without family nearby.
